What it means to come home

I’ve spent the majority of my adulthood in states no one in my California family had ever seen, Oklahoma and Tennessee. I wouldn’t change a thing; the experiences I had and the people I met and love are gifts that have changed me forever. When we love people, we feel drawn to them, incomplete without them. We can feel the same way about places, and for me, the place that has pulled on my heart the hardest and the longest is Berkeley, CA, which I left at age 24 when I headed to Oklahoma.

I am a rare breed of Californian, a 4th generation native on my mother’s side. Not just of California, but of Berkeley. Although I was born in Carmel, CA because of my father’s Army location, Berkeley is the first place I really lived, in married student housing for the University of California, Berkeley.

Records indicate that my great-great-grandfather Kyran Connors immigrated to Berkeley from Ireland in 1849, and got married in 1870 to Alice, who came there in 1852, and they had 8 children, including my great-grandpa, William, “Pa”. He married my great-grandma Della, or “Ma”, whose parents had also arrived early to Berkeley, in 1870 and 1865. They had 5 children, including my beloved Grams and my favorite uncle Merv.

William (4th from right) was Captain of Berkeley Engine no. 1. (1915)

Grams met my Gramps, they had my mom, and then came me. Generations of Berkeley love.

My Gramps and his side of the family are Italian. My great-grandfather Giuseppe, later Joseph, came to America in 1905, and went to Montana, where he met my Nana, Amelia, who was born in Montana after her parents came over around 1870. They had Gramps, and ended up in Berkeley around 1920. They settled in West Berkeley, on a little piece of land that contains two tiny bungalows that share a driveway and garage, one built in 1921, the other in 1925. These two houses, and the precious memories they contain, are my heart. My mother was raised in the 1921 house, and her grandmother lived next door. When I came along, my grandparents were in one, my Nana in the other, and my uncle Merv was in the Irish family home about 4 blocks away. And next month, I am moving into the 1925 house, my great-grandparents’ home. And my neighbors will be my brother and sister-in-law. My brother has lived in the 1921 house for about a decade now. HOW COOL IS THAT????? I am pretty much beside myself, not gonna lie.

My “new” digs, circa 1941.

Grams and my newborn mommy in the back of my “new” place

Age 1, watering “my” lawn (is that the same broom from the previous pic taken 24 years earlier??)

Age 2 with Gramps, learning about preparing the garden for a bounty, Italian-style

I have spent a colossal amount of time on this property, especially as a child. I was blessed with the gift of adoring grandparents who shaped who I am. I was my Gramps’ shadow, and lived in my Grams’ lap. I learned how to ride a bike there, how to tie my shoes there, and how to properly salt a fresh tomato and pick a carrot. My Gramps’ garden was glorious, and I cannot wait to bring it back to life. There is a giant, ancient lemon tree in the back yard, and I can’t wait to make my first lemonade. I’ll invite you over! We’ll add vodka!

Age 3, working that 70s mullet

My Nana died when I was 8 or 9, and I honestly don’t think I’ve been in that house since. Maybe once. There have been many wonderful tenants over the years while the other house kept family inside. But now both houses will have family in them again, and honestly, I can’t imagine belonging anywhere more. It’s old and won’t be like living in this fancy condo in the burbs, but I couldn’t care less about that. I get to be where 3 generations of my wonderful family has lived and loved, made pasta, grew food, washed cars, and laughed. I get to be in a city I love. I am a very, VERY lucky Berkeley kid, and my heart just may explode. Salute!

Why???

I use the same bed, same pillow, sleep in the same position every dang night. So why did I wake up with a hurty neck that won’t turn to the left this morning? WHYYYYYYYYY?? So I stepped right outta the salty side of the bed and logged onto this shit. Because GOTDAMMIT!

Excuse me while I rant, not so gingerly, about the HUMAN RACE for a mo. Little things, big things, whatever, I’m over it. SO MANY PEOPLE. So much suck. (Also necks. Necks suck.)

Most humans are blessed with 5 senses, yet so many clearly aren’t using them. Excuse me, sir. YOU REEK. I know you can SMELL THAT. So why are you making me, that girl over there, this whole train, and presumably your poor mother SMELL THAT? Take a shower, wash your clothes, and I don’t know, try deodorant? But for god’s sake, don’t reach for that $10 bottle of Eu de Stank, it won’t help you or us. TRUST. And ma’am? I hear you having a conversation over lunch, so I know your ears work. How are you oblivious to the smacking sound of your lunch in your mouth that is GAPING OPEN while you chew? Were you raised by cows in a barn? How did your daddy not slap that food and that nasty habit right outta your mouth? I know you can hear it because we can hear it 5 tables away. And every one of us is dreaming of poking you with the forks we’re holding.

Gluten-free! LAWD! You don’t have Celiac Disease, yet have decided that wheat, rye and barley are your enemies. You probably fell victim to the rash of gluten-free packaging propaganda, and decided it must be bad for you, even though you grew up eating pizza and Wonder Bread, like the rest of us, with your small intestine intact. Or maybe you read a terribly compelling and in no way backed up by facts book by a C-list celebrity detailing the TERRORS OF GLUTEN. Fine. But don’t put the host of a party or the mother cooking for the cub scout troop camping trip in the position of having to supply your hippy ass or your child without Celiac gluten-free options! That’s rude AF! Fend for yourself, FFS! The other party guests deserve their gotdam cheese and crackers, and those cub scouts like bagels, you selfish ass!

Hey, lady with a packed cart who walked up to the only open grocery line at the same time as the little old lady with a bunch of bananas and didn’t let her go first? You are the SUCK. The suckiest of the suck. May your persimmons be rotten on the inside, just like you. And yeah, you’re damn right I wanted to leap over the little old lady and smack you, I saw you giving me the side eye. When you KNOW you suck, and still do sucky things, you’re just looking for karma to make you it’s bitch.

Oh, and also? OWN YOUR SHIT. We all know you fucked up, so when you deny it or try to blame other people or circumstances for said fuck up, you become an even bigger fuck up. Be honest, and no one is gonna hold a grudge. In fact, they’ll have respect for you for owning up to the mistake, and you’re less likely to repeat the mistake. Otherwise, YOU SUCK.

Hahahaaaaaa, I wrote all of the above yesterday morning in bed with a gimpy neck and steam shooting out of my ears, and then went out and had me a really good day, full of friendly people, excellent service, and positive energy all around. RANTING CAN SAVE THE WORLD, PEOPLE!!

Now you have yourself a #blessed day.

How can you not be romantic about baseball?

That’s a great line from an okay movie based on a spectacular book called Moneyball. Maybe you’ve heard of it? If you’ve only seen the movie and never read the book, that’s cool. You are probably just not that into baseball. The history, mythology, and traditions of baseball. There is no Brad Pitt in the book, sorry. But the real story of Billy Beane and Paul DePodesta examining the stats work of Bill James and his “sabermetrics” is super fascinating, at least to this nerd. OKAY, I ADMIT IT. I am a super duper baseball nerd.

Can I rattle off stats or tell you the line-ups from every season of my favorite team? Nope. I also don’t record stats at the games on a scorecard, but I’d probably love to once I learned the art, which I should do. But I remember the times and the players who got me in my guts like no time has gone by. I still remember the smell of old popcorn in the outfield grandstands at the Coliseum back in the 70s, and the announcers on the radio when I was a kid, particularly Bill King and his famous, “HOLY TOLEDO!” I don’t know why I’ve always been drawn to the game, but I have. I have always been a fan of the Oakland Athletics, and secondarily the SF Giants (Bay Area love only), but I wasn’t even allowed to play baseball as a kid, because ONLY SOFTBALL FOR GURLS. Lame!!

It’s the feeling I get when I arrive at my seat with a beer in my hand, and sit down and just take in my surroundings. Every game has the possibility to be historic, and in those peaceful moments before the teams are announced and the anthem is sung, my imagination can take over and my memories make me feel like they’ve wrapped me me up in the fluffiest of comfy blankets. Anything can happen, and for the next 3 hours or more, we fans wait with confidence that magic awaits us.

The view from my seat this season

I think being an Oakland A’s fan and the atmosphere at the Coliseum is special. I’m sure all fans feel that way about their team, but I’ve been to other parks. Meh. Other than in Boston, I don’t know if anyone loves their team more. I also laugh out loud multiple times a game, like yesterday when we were down 8-1 and one of the amazing Coliseum hot dog vendors was walking through the plaza infield waving a ketchup bottle madly and hollering, “Let’s CATCH UP! Let’s CATCH UP!” Stomper, the elephant mascot with mad dance skills, the Hall of Fame Big Heads (seen above), and the vast array of instrumentalists throughout the park, particularly the percussionists, provide endless entertainment even if what’s happening on the field isn’t. Stupid things get me giggling every time, like the Judge Wopner People’s Court theme they play with the umps review a play, or when it’s obvious that the organ player had a little too much coffee that morning. I also love how salty other teams can get about our crazy fans.

Poor babies. The replies from A’s fans were fire.

Thing is, it’s not the easiest to hear terms like “poverty franchise” about your team, or to be ignored by MLB publicity forums and all-star votes, but A’s fans believe in our team no matter what. We have had a remarkable 50+ year run at the Coliseum with 4 World Series wins and tons of playoff appearances, despite our budgetary constraints. We have an incredible skipper in Bob Melvin (swoon) and players who are clocking extraordinary stats, even if no one else is noticing. And other people can trash talk all they want, cause we DGAF.

***clap clap clapclapclap LET’S GO OAKLAND! clap clap clapclapclap***

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My favorite uncle Merv and I were tight. He was a salty ol’ shit-slinger with a crazy sense of humor and zero filter, so we were peas in a pod. His brain was powerful, even after age 90, and until the year before he died, he walked 4 miles through Berkeley every day carrying a lead pipe (“in case some prick tries to mess with me”) and did his calisthenics on the porch every morning. He stood a straight 6’2” even in old age, and loved opera, Vanna White, and his family. Oh yeah, and baseball. He played a little. This is Merv.

In 1990, Jerome Holtzman wrote an article for the Chicago Tribune about Comiskey Park called “From Connors to Condon”, a touching ode from someone who clearly gets the romance.

“The best way, I suppose, is to begin at the beginning. I grew up on the Southwest Side, a White Sox fan, and one my earliest recollections of the Sox was in 1938, when Merv Connors hit three home runs in his first three at-bats. I was 11, already keeping a scorecard, and listening to the game on the radio, an old Philco. Bob Elson was the announcer.

The fourth time up, Connors was aiming for posterity. Four home runs in one game, then as now, was the major-league record. Connors came close. He doubled. Four or five feet higher and it would have cleared. The ball struck one of the red lights on the inning-by-inning scoreboard fastened just below the top of the left-field brick wall.”

Imagine if that last hit had been a homer, damn. He would’ve joined a very small and elite club, which at that time had only 2 members, including Lou Gehrig. But his accomplishments in baseball were still very impressive. Along with his two seasons in the majors, he played in the minors for 18 seasons. That’s kind of crazy. He hit 400 homers in his career, no more, no less, including 30 in 1935 alone. That number coupled with his 1,629 RBIs give him some of the highest numbers in baseball history. The only time he wasn’t playing pro ball between ages 20 and 39 was when he went to Europe in 1944 to help win a little war. He was a decorated veteran of the Army 1st Battalion, 517th Parachute Infantry Regiment, and fought in the Battle of the Bulge. (The 517th is fascinating to read about, if you’re into that kind of thing.) Aannnnnnd he got some medals, came back, and put the glove back on.

Merv didn’t talk about any of his fascinating life much, especially the war. He would talk more about his favorite restaurants in certain cities he played for, or other memories of his travels outside of the diamond. But until his death in 2006 just before his 92nd birthday, he got constant requests in the mail for his autograph on 3x5 cards from the big fans and collectors. Since he would rather listen to a record or watch ol’ hot legs Vanna on Wheel in his later years, he would let me work through the piles of mail he would throw on the sofa and ignore, and I would just give him the stacks of cards to sign and stuff the return envelopes for him. I absolutely loved reading the fan mail; I learned so much about him, because he never EVER bragged about anything. God, I miss him. He could be mean as a snake when he wanted to be, but he loved the crap outta me, and he made me laugh like no one has since. And he got the last laugh, putting in his requests for his funeral service that we all sing “Take Me out to the Ballgame” as he was lowered into the ground. That ol’ mutha!

Well, I guess I’m done. I love baseball. Stories like Merv’s, all of them. That’s the romance.

Thanks for reading.

Woooodawg! It's about to get random in here!

Heeeeeeyyyy, y’all! Greetings from the sunny East Bay! Since I rarely post much lately because I’m too lazy and dumb to think of a theme for a blog post (still suffering from grad school PTSD), here is just a smattering of the things gettin’ their boogie on in my head. In no particular order. (Order is exhausting.)

I recently decided to stop eating red meat. No, this isn’t “Oh, the Californian is gonna eat sprouts and support animal rights” thing. I’m very comfortable with my position on the food chain, and I love a good rib-eye like WHOA. The thing is…….

I mean, maybe. My body keeps giving me signs that middle age is a FUCKING DICK, and that maaaaaybe I wanna make some decisions that might be good for my health for a change. I kinda feel like garbage after every time I have a steak, sadly. So rather than give up the 5 pounds of sugar/carbs I eat/drink in a week, the cow has got to go.

Thing is, I can probably survive the steak withdrawal alright. I don’t eat them very often. But BURGERS?? Lawd, I love a good burger, now. I remember when eating some kinda deep-fried burger at a spot in Memphis was akin to a religious experience for me. In fact, it’s rare that I straight up give the thumbs down to a burger, because even the dry, sad ones can be okay if you doctor them up properly.

I’ve heard all kinds of people talking about these new plant-based burgers that are pink in the middle and actually juicy. I was skeptical, to say the least. I tried a Boca burger in the past and would have probably preferred to feast on a urinal cake than that shit. But I decided to be open-minded, and I tried one of the Safeway organic brand’s vegan burgers that I found in the meat section. (hahaha, they’re always in the meat section, like, “Sorry, loser. You gotta look at all the good-tasting actual meat while you pick up your flower burger, ya hippie.”) Y’all, that shit was nasty. I made it as directed, and had my favorite buns and fixins, but I kept chewing and chewing and chewing. There were these nasty chewy chunks in the whole thing, and it tasted like….well, nasty chewy chunks. The second one in the package went in the garbage. I tried an Impossible Burger, and I’ll tell you what’s impossible. That people actually think this is good, that people think this is an acceptable substitute for a real burger, that people don’t hurl their plates at their servers in disgust. That’s what. So on a couple friends’ recommendations, I bought Beyond Burgers at Whole Paycheck today, expecting to be cranky and foot-stompy again. But!!!!

I mean, is it as good as a meat burger? Nope. But I didn’t expect it to be. It was, however, juicy, a little crispy and charred on the outside, and had a texture like a real burger. NO CHEWY MYSTERY CHUNKS. I ate the whole thing, and actually look forward to eating the second one soon. So if you’re in the market for sad, non-burgers, I recommend Beyond Burger. They have a sausage, too, and you know I’ll be trying that shit!

Let’s see, what else. Been loving being back in the Coliseum on a regular basis for A’s baseball. All those painful years of never seeing games or paying out my ass for a subscription to watch them on my laptop are thankfully over now, one of the best parts of being back in the Bay. I feel so alive when I’m at a game, it’s romantic and sentimental and magical. Their new season ticket “Access” thingy is super awesome, too - mainly for the beer and food at 50% off! Every time I get a micro-brew draft for $5, it feels like my birthday! So I’m having lots of birthdays lately, is what I’m saying.

Here’s the thing, though. I go to the games alone, mostly. My subscription is for one. I can add tickets for 25% off, and I have, but it makes me sad that I don’t have any friends or family who are as nuts for this team as I am. This isn’t a new thing, but it’s much more noticeable now! I have sat by some cool people and had the time of my life, but I’ve also sat by geezers who talk about mutual funds throughout the whole game, and one of these cranky douches even dropped his dang CANE on my head. No. Fuck no.

I gotta get new friends, obvs. It’s funny (not) that the two biggest A’s fans I know live in Memphis now. GAAAAHHHH. Even though I’ve been on a single-and-loving-it kick for a few years now, I’d almost consider having a boyfriend again. If he was a huge A’s fan, of course.

Maybe.

It’s cool, though. Even if I roll through the whole game without anyone talking to me but my favorite beer lady, it’s still the happiest place on earth. If you ask me. :)

Oh yeah! And can someone tell me when the hell turkeys took over the Bay Area? And why they’re so fucking AGGRO???

These big bitches are EVERYWHERE. I’ve seen ‘em out in CoCo County all over the place, got chased by a gobbling pack of them hiking in the Oakland hills, and saw a gaggle of them at the Berkeley Marina yesterday, for fuck’s sake. Like, where are they coming from??! They stand in the middle of the street, and you can be rolling straight at them at 40 mpg and they look at you like “IDGAF, try me.” If we do hit one, are we allowed to eat it? I don’t know the rules here. I know plenty of people back in Memphis that are already putting on the forest camo as they read this, hahahaaaa!!! I swear to god I never saw one turkey in the first 25 years of my life living here. Did a plane drop them? Did a turkey farmer go rogue and randomly place them in various streets? I really, really wanna know, y’all.

REALLY. Wanna know.

Anyway, I’m done now. Have a turkey-free, A’s-loaded, real big beefy burger day, lovelies.

Gardening: My new crack!

Two things I’m wondering……is it weird that I have never had a houseplant, let alone a garden, at 48 years old? And also, is it weird how TOTALLY ENTHRALLED AND ADDICTED I AM after mere weeks of dipping my toes into the endless possibilities of this hobby?

I’m not exaggerating, I am like a crackhead right now. As with any endeavor, I want to be successful at it, so I armed myself with internet research and YouTube videos about how to actually do any of it. If I hadn’t done that, I would’ve left the little plants I bought in the containers they came in, watered them some, and probably cried when they never grew and died on me. I had no idea you had to replant all of this stuff when you got it home, nor did I realize the requirements for successful plants, and how much chemistry and other science-y things are involved. I’m happy to live in a good climate now with lots of sun and two balconies, so I decided to give it a try. I did grow up with my grandfather having a stunning garden full of food every year, and my mother has always had pretty flowers and success at vegetable gardening, so I was hoping some of their know-how and successes had seeped into my being by osmosis or something.

I knew I wanted to grow edibles that I regularly cook with, like tomatoes, peppers and basil, and that I wanted some pretty flowers for the balcony I regularly hang out on. I went to Homey D first, and was immediately attracted to a pot with big two-color purple flowers called a clematis. It wasn’t expensive, so I picked it up, as well as a little seed greenhouse thing, and some seeds, just to try it out from scratch. I found out later that the clematis is a vine grower and can be trained upwards easily, so then I had to buy some stakes for that sucker.

How pretty is this thing??

Not for nothing, but I have been tending to this dang plant like it’s a new born baby. And it has grown and made new buds in the few weeks I’ve owned it, and that is so exciting to me! I stare at it like it’s a mountain of gold coins or something. Is this weird?

I got some seeds as party favors at a wedding reception, so I planted them in the little peat squares greenhouse thing I bought, which just looked like a 13x9 pan with a plastic lid. I also planted some zinnias, which I’ve always loved, and some basil, just to see what would happen. When after only 6 days little green shoots were coming out of the soil, I LOST MY DAMN MIND! I felt so powerful! I put dry little shit in dirt, applied water, and voila! Magical, I tell you. After 2 weeks, this is what I have.

I have no idea how long this stuff usually takes, but this seems crazy! They already have little green leaves! And I re-potted just the strong-looking peat squares in this cute pot because the 13x9 pan was not cute and cheap AF. Who knows where these will go, but you better believe I am checking on them probably way too much. Because I AM OBSESSED.

We’ve had some rain and cold days, so I waited to get the little vegetable plants I wanted. UNTIL TODAY! OH FRABJOUS DAY! CALLOOH CALLAY! I now have a vegetable garden in grow bags on my second balcony. Two varieties each of peppers, tomatoes, and basil, all which are supposed to do well in containers.

The thought of being able to make my pasta sauce with items from my own garden is almost too much! I don’t want to get my hopes up too high, but I am super excited at the prospect of growing things I can eat. I feel like I am crazy for never realizing that I had this desire before. Having indoor cats (and pure laziness) has kept me from having any houseplants, and as a die-hard renter who has been in low-light or bad climate or no outdoor space-land for far too long, I guess there really was no good time before.

Wish me and my new pals good luck!

New twister purple verbena friend for my clematis, who seemed lonely.